


Untouched

by Bofur1



Series: Pound, Pound, Far Underground [6]
Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies)
Genre: Angst and Tragedy, Child Loss, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Grief/Mourning, Group Hugs, Minor Character Death, Multi, Numbness, OT7 Friendship, Parent-Child Relationship, Self-Harmful Thoughts, Stillbirth
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-08
Updated: 2015-03-08
Packaged: 2018-03-16 21:40:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 811
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3503735
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bofur1/pseuds/Bofur1
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Even before Ori was born, there were three Brothers Ri. At least, there was <em>supposed<em> to be.</em></em></p>
            </blockquote>





	Untouched

Fori trailed a hand along the wall as he stumbled down the secret passage to the Underground, trying to keep himself steady. He couldn’t feel his feet or his fingertips, but he pressed onward anyway lest he collapse on the stairs.

Why was he here? Meeting, he had a meeting; he remembered abruptly, stopping and staring blankly down the hall in front of him. Which way was this? Turning blindly, he went the other way instead, searching for a light he couldn’t see.

He found it eventually, half-muted voices hitting his ears without processing. As he stopped at the edge of the Meeting room, Fori clenched his fists to keep them from shaking, but that just sent the quivering to his core. He held his breath then, until it hurt, but it was nothing compared to the agony in his heart.

“…alright, Blade-Driver?”

After a long pause, the title registered in Fori’s mind as his own. His pale blue eyes shifted to the speaker, Tras, who met his gaze with confused concern. At last allowing himself a breath, Fori forced words through cold, chapped lips.

“I…lost…” If he had wanted to breathe then, he couldn’t. He couldn’t—wouldn’t—shouldn’t speak the name, instead whirling to slam a fist into the stone wall. He didn’t feel the impact, but his hand was bleeding and then his knees buckled, sending him down.

Large arms slid beneath his own and Fori didn’t struggle, hanging limply in Ardofir’s grasp as he was dragged toward the ring of chairs under urgent direction from Tras.

“Fori, what’s wrong?” Tras demanded, crouching in front of him and trying to catch his eyes. “Fori?”

“Is something wrong with Jalane?” Oreeve tried. There were murmurs of worry; Fori had made it clear countless times how he adored his Dwarrowdam and how he constantly fretted about her safety.

Fori gasped and choked on it, wrapped his arms around himself. He could feel a knife on his waist pressing against the inside of his forearm and temptation clutched at him. Distraction. He needed feeling, he needed pain—

_But Jalane—you promised never again—she’s grieving too, she’d understand—no—_

Leaping to his feet and upsetting the chair, Fori ripped off his cloak and tunic, seizing each weapon on his person and hurling them away as though they were fresh from the forge and burned him. The other crime-lords watched with open-mouthed disbelief and apprehension until Fori found himself weaponless, unable to tempt himself with cutting. Then he tried to find the chair behind him, but he’d knocked it down, so he landed on the floor, curling his knees to his chest.

“ _I LOST MY BABY!_ ”

When the echoes of Fori’s wail faded, utter silence washed over the group of seven. It stretched for a long, tense moment as Fori buried his face in his knees and rocked back and forth, uncaring about humiliation or letting his guard down.

“Dori?” Datli asked anxiously. “You can’t mean Dori.”

“The newborn, his…his brother. Jori, he was stillborn.” Fori flinched when he felt a hand settle over the curve of his spine, glancing over his shoulder. He expected to find Cellanar, the only other father among them, but it was Oreeve.

“How did Dori take it?” she questioned.

“He thought the baby was sleepin’,” Fori answered through gritted teeth. “Holy Mahal, I couldn’t say anythin’. Jalane had to _explain_ it to him. How well d’you _think_ he took it? He ran off and hid somewhere and Jalane was just cryin’ and cryin’ and I…just…left. Came here. I c-couldn’t stay there, I just had to get away and I don’t have anywhere else to go!”

He knew what he was admitting, that he thought of his fellow crime-lords as family, and he cringed, wondering if they would be estranged because of it. They didn’t seem to have anything to say for or against this revelation. It gave time for Fori’s eyes and throat to well and he shivered with panic at the sensation.

“What happened?!” he sobbed out. “He was alive! When he was growin’, I _felt_ him! He kicked me right in the middle of my palm and he was _alive!_ I never got to say hello to him before I had to say goodbye!”

Before Fori knew what was happening, Ardofir’s arms were pulling him up once more, crushing him against a solid chest. Oreeve’s hand moved from his back to his shoulder while Tras’s hand took the first place. Datli and Cellanar tried to fill in the unoccupied spaces, while Ralmod murmured undefinable comforting words in both Common Speech and Khuzdûl.

Even as he wept, Fori also prayed. _Mahal, don’t take this._ _You took my baby from me, but if you touch_ this _family, I will find some way to make you regret it. What would I do without them?_


End file.
